


Anabolic

by abundanceofvowels



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Serious fluff, call your dentists there's fluff in here that'll rot your teeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:36:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundanceofvowels/pseuds/abundanceofvowels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, John, and the monster called Sleep</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anabolic

      Sleep was an elusive beast that took too much energy to hunt down alone. Sherlock often let it prowl the shadows, just out of reach, for days at a time. He could keep it at bay with naps on the sofa or treats of black tea and meditation. Eventually, however, the great creature would recognize Sherlock’s severely weakened defenses and grasp at his ankles, claw at his eyelids until its powerful, slooming hold pulled him down and pinned him for a span of rest.

 

     There were days, when Sherlock was lucky, that John could see the beast too. He would notice Sherlock’s languorous shuffle of a run and then his eyes would steel and soften. He would approach with caution, for he knew the monster could strike if it were startled. No, John was a charmer of wild things and could tiptoe around risk with sure-footed care and accuracy. He would beckon Sherlock away wordlessly, guiding with the lightest of touches to his wrist, and leave him with his drooping eyelids and tensed mouth in the center of his bedroom. This was the creature’s lair and Sherlock felt the smallest gurgle of laughter pass in the back of his throat over John leading him into danger for once. In the shadowed den of the behemoth is where John would strip him of the remainder of his defenses, slide the fabric of his silk armored dressing gown from his shoulders, still barely touching skin to skin. He let Sherlock keep his cotton trousers on, but pulled the matching shirt up and over his head. The removal of his safeguards sent goosebumps to prickle Sherlock’s exposed flesh and his breath caught in shallow gulps. John stood in the way of the worst of it, took Sherlock by the hand and laid him down on the soft cushion of the duvet.

 

     Sherlock curled onto his side, pulled his joints into bends that left his bones jutting out in resistance against the temper of the lethargy that threatened to close in from all sides. There was a dip in the mattress as John climbed onto the bed behind him. He was still clothed, save for his shoes and socks which had been left at the foot of the bed as if a tiny peace offering. There were the most tentative of touches to Sherlock’s shoulder blades as John let him know that he was there, standing guard and ready to fight, to win or lose by Sherlock’s side. He moved slowly closer until his arms were wrapped around Sherlock’s bare torso and his chest pressed against the knobs of his spine. Then, John did the most curious thing. This was the moment of truth, the peak of the fight that had been fought alone for hours and hours. John urged Sherlock to turn toward him, wrapped his arms tightly around him, wound his fingers into his dusky curls, pulled him close, and then welcomed the shadowy mass to join them.

 

     The hulking brute that clambered into bed with the two men had been changed. John, in his mysterious and wonderful ways, had transformed the beast into a blanket of warmth and security. Its paws were velvety soft and its breath was warm and Sherlock’s tension melted away as he felt it curl itself around the pair of them, urging them unfathomably closer. Sherlock buried his face into the soft fabric at John’s chest and finally let himself lose the battle. But with his legs intertwined with John’s and his torso pressed against the safety of his middle, Sherlock didn’t feel like a casualty. No, when John rubbed circles onto his back and the shell of his lips pressed lightly against the flesh at his hairline, whispering phrases that didn’t have to mean anything for them to mean everything, and he finally, finally fell into the darkness of sleep, Sherlock considered himself the winner of a most incredible victory.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a ficlet originally posted on my tumblr (MindPalaceofVersailles). If you're interested in fanart and pictures of Benedict Cumberbatch, I'm your gal.


End file.
